Threshing season!

My father wasn't exactly the most progressive farmer in the district.  He did however own three tractors.  An oldish one, a very oldish one and a new one.  Our threshing machine as far as I can remember was ancient, and made mostly out of wood. The new tractor would be "harnessed" to the elderly threshing machine, in order to drive the conveyor belt, laden with mealies upwards and into the "belly" of the beast.  That was where all the magic took place.  With much jerking and jolting and clattering and clanging, the mealie pips would come pouring out into hessian bags hanging on the right hand side of the machine.  The cobs would be spewed out on the left and the leaves, otherwise known as "blare" would be shot high into the air out of the front, landing like giant snowflakes onto an ever increasing heap.  

When the heap was large enough, my sisters and I would burrow into the centre, hollowing out a large cave, and fortifying it with a high semi-circular wall.  My big sister who always had lots of ideas, suggested that we pull nylon stockings over our heads, in order to prevent all the dust and dirt from being breathed into our lungs.  Well, apart from looking like three midgets hell bent on robbing a bank, the stockings made no difference whatsoever in protecting our lungs.  

The bags of mealies would be stacked upright in rows, and each bag sewn together at the top by using a large needle with a curved and flattened end.  I loved sewing up the bags and running up and down on top of them to make sure I had countered them correctly.  One of the things I loved to do best of all, was to plunge my hands into the mealies, sometimes even up to my elbows, then slowing pull them out again, allowing the pips to trickle through my fingers.  I would do this again, and again, and again, mesmerized by the sameness of the action.  The gentle clicking noise together with the coolness of the mealies in the hot African sun was balm to my spirit.

All this ended very abruptly when boarding school 
intervened.  I soon discovered that the holidays seldom
coincided with the threshing season.  Still, memories are very powerful and very precious, and many of them can be wrapped up and carefully stored in ones heart, to be brought out from time to time and examined like a rare and beautiful jewel.  

Playing truant!

On the South side of the swimming pool stood a row of Apricot trees.  These were wonderful for climbing and playing in.  When spring arrived and the trees burst into blossom, we knew that the fruit would not be far behind. Unfortunately it never reached maturity, as the hard green little globes were either eaten or used as ammunition in the "gang warfare" which ensued from time to time.  

Our Boarder's mother had a cure-all for every ailment. Two tablespoons of Castor oil!  If we were caught eating the green fruit, we were obliged to line up in front of her and take our medicine like a "man."  We were never sure whether  the ensuring results were on account of the unripened apricots, or the foul tasting liquid. 

In one particular year we spent a lot of time sitting in these beautiful leafy trees.  That was the year we were given a new teacher for Latin and Afrikaans.  She happened to be German and had a very thick accent.  None of us could understand a word she said, and so as she walked into the classroom, at least fifteen to twenty of us escaped through the door behind her.

We were a class of forty eight children, but she seemed quite oblivious to the fact that so many were missing each day. Being an order of nuns who wore Wimples, she had no peripheral vision whatsoever, and so slipping through the door behind her back, was a piece of cake.

There seemed to be a real sense of freedom in escaping the boring lessons taught to us in unintelligible words.  Many a war was waged during those stolen periods, and the ground would be littered with half eaten apricots.  Needless to say, none of us passed either one of the aforementioned subjects, but who cared!  We were all sent up on mass to the next standard and thankfully Frau nun was given a whole new class of unsuspecting greenhorns to practice her non existent skills on. 

The old man, the horse and the mule!

There they lay, blood seeping into the hot tarmac, flies already gathering around their heads, in anticipation of the unexpected feast.  My eyes travelled down the white blood splattered neck of the larger one, across his back and down his legs.  Both were bent at the knees with a shaft of shinbone sticking out at an awkward angle.  Blood was beginning to congeal around the raw, gaping hole.   My eyes shifted to the smaller one, also lying in a pool of blood.  His mouth was filled with dirt and grass from the recent violent accident. Lips which were pulled back revealed large worn-down teeth. Worst of all, the shrunken body of a man well past his prime, lay motionless among the twisted bits of metal he had been transporting in his little cart to the scrap dealer.  

He must have been in his late eighties, as his hair and wispy beard had long succumbed to the ravages of age. His face too was lined and leathery from the many hours of working in the blazing African sun.  One of his gnarled hands was still entwined in the reins.  It seemed that even in death he was still attached to his faithful animals.

I often saw this little man, proudly seated on the wooden slats of his cart, cracking his whip over the ears of his trusty steads.  One large white horse and a smaller roan coloured mule.  He could have been a king, judging by the way he sat with straight back and regal countenance.

Many a time I had seen him steer his animals into the busy road, without looking left or right.  It was as if he expected everyone to stop dead in their tracks, and allow him to trot briskly in front of them.  He seemed quite oblivious to the fact that life was different now and horses and carts were from some bygone era.  Perhaps his vast age precluded him from understanding the consequences of his actions, or perhaps his depth perception wasn't functioning properly. Whatever the case, he now lay together with his beloved horse and mule in the wreckage of his life's work.

So, so very sad.  It would wrench at my heartstrings every time I passed that particular section of road.  The picture of that proud little old man with his cart and "horses" is firmly etched into my mind for all eternity. 

Playing in the Veld

As children my sisters and I mostly amused ourselves with whatever happened to be available at the time.  Horses to be caught, and saddled up for a ride, lambs to be fostered and fed, and calves after having been separated from their mothers, to be taught how to slurp milk from a bucket.  With all this interaction between us and the animals, we hardly missed the toys other children seemed to play with in the big cities.

We had a wonderful young girl by the name of Rosalina working for my mother.  When I was particularly lonely, my mother would ask her to play with me.  Together we would dig out large lumps of grey clay from the edge of the big dam behind the cowshed.  It took her no time at all to fashion broad-shouldered oxen with long curved horns.  Try as I might, the animals I made never looked remotely like hers. My horses resembled giraffes, and my cows had elongated bodies and short legs.  Sometimes I modeled the clay into little people who would in my imagination, ride my giraffe horses all around the farm.

At times we would forage for wild spinach which grew among the long grass surrounding the mealie fields, and occasionally we would come across a sort of mock sugar cane.  This would be a real treat for us, and we would contentedly chew our way through the sweet, juicy stalks.

Rosalina seemed to know a lot about the plants which grew in the veld.  We often went looking for roots.  One particular bulb grew deep down in the soil.  By using a pointed stick, we could scrape away the ground to expose the large bulbous tuber.  I can't remember if it was edible or not or whether it was used for medicinal purposes, but Rosaline would proudly carry her trophy back home with her.

I was introduced by her to a flat, knobbly looking plant, which when struck by a stone, would begin to weep a white, sticky substance.  Once it got onto your hands or feet, it was almost impossible to get rid of without soap and water.  It would cling to you like latex.  If you happened to touch the ground or the grass, this too would most surely become embedded in the sticky goo.  Nonetheless, hunting among the rocks and stones for these hard little knobbly patches was addictive.  I never ceased to be fascinated by the white liquid oozing out of them.

Life on the farm was really lonely once my sisters went to boarding school, but wonderful people like Rosalina, helped to quell the long hours of boredom, as well as teach me a lot about the veld with all it's wonderful treasures.    

Stone cold well

I loved the old well with it's beautifully chiseled stone block walls,  bits of moss and slime clinging to the uneven sides.  I has no idea how long it had been there, or even who had built it, except as a child, it held a great fascination for me.  From an early age I would peer into it's depth, looking for the odd frog who had made it's home there.  I would run my hand slowly over the softness of the moss and pull threads of slime from the side of the walls.

My father once dropped a pair of pliers into the well, and reluctant to do the job himself, did his best to persuade me to dive down and retrieve them.  No sooner had I eased myself into the well, then my nerve deserted me.  I quickly jumped out of the icy, cold water and refused to go in again.  A sheep fell in and drowned once.  Fortunately, it was discovered before it rotted and messed up the water.

The constant overflow from the well trickled into a small stream, which oozed it's way through the grass, and down the gentle slope into the large dam behind the old cowshed. 
There was something rather magical about squelching through the warm, watery grass leading to the dam, then wading ankle deep in velvety mud, before pushing off with a lazy breast-stroke into the colder, deeper parts of the dam. 

The dam was full of frogs, sunning themselves on the grassy embankment.  With a cacophony of plops, they would fling themselves into the water ahead of any perceived danger. Along the one side of the dam, where one could dig out huge lumps of clay, were numerous crab holes, each with a pair of crab eyes peeping out and two twitching claws waving around, then as quick as a wink, they would disappear down the long passageway into the bank, re-emerging only when all was clear once more.

My father banged together a canoe for me, using a flat piece of tin, and I would lie back in it and sunbathe, contentedly floating around and listening to the gentle slap, slap, slapping of the water against the blistered, yellow paint.  

The dam played an integral part in the lives of my sisters and I.  It was here where we learned to swim, where we fished for frogs and where in Summer, we took our horses for a cooling dip.  I can't think of anything more therapeutic than lying across the back of a swimming horse.    
    

The case of the Haunted Bathroom

On three days of the week we were allowed to bath in one of the ten bathrooms situated on the other side of the small bell tower.  The tall bell tower, where we were absolutely forbidden to venture, could be found in the nuns section of the convent.  Not that that deterred the more adventurous of those among us, who would sprint up the long flight of stairs, ring the bell and gallop down again at full tilt, to hopefully disappear into the playground.

On the other days we would line up in the washroom in complete silence to wash ourselves at the many basins or the two foot bathes.  Saturday afternoons were always fun times, when we were allowed to wash our hair and clean our brushes and combs.  It was also one of the times when we were allowed to talk, and do one another's hair.  A nice, lazy, comfortable feeling would pervade the washroom, while the light and trivial banter would play itself out backwards and forwards between the four large mirrors.  It was a time of cementing friendships, as well as a bit of rivalry as we jostled for position at the basins.  

One of my friends daringly coloured her hair red, and was rewarded for this impulsive action by being excluded from taking part in any further school excursions, until the colour either washed out, or grew out and was cut off.  

Always having had a rather bad memory, I invariably left my wet socks on the side of the basin, instead of hanging them on the iron railing at the back of my bed.  I could get away with it in Summer, but Winter was a different story.  It took forever for my body heat to dry out the socks on my feet.  On those particular days, I felt I was really doing some sort of "penance", not that I ever fully understood what that meant beyond a vague feeling that something difficult and painful had to be endured.

The first urban legend I ever heard at boarding school concerned number nine bathroom.  I was told that the last thing you ever wanted, was to be allocated number nine bathroom because there, doing her exercises, with her head under her left arm, was a headless nun.  Whenever number nine bathroom happened to be my lot for the term or the year as the case may be, I went through agonising times, trying to bath myself as quickly as possible before the headless nun appeared.  I thought that at any moment she would crawl out from under the free-standing bath, grinning at me from under her armpit and doing star jumps.  I would fling myself as far away from the bath as I possibly could and without drying myself, pull on my pajamas and flee from the offending bathroom as fast as my legs could carry me, my heart racing twenty to the dozen.

I never forgot the story of the headless nun who haunted the poor unsuspecting number nine bathroom, although as I grew older, it slowly had less and less of an affect on me until it became just that -  A crazy urban legend.

Pecking Order

Boarding school is one of the greatest levelers one could ever possibly hope to encounter. It is here that you discovered just where you stood in terms of pecking order.  I'm afraid to say, that I soon learned very quickly that I was pretty much at the bottom end of the ocean in terms of pecking order.  Yes, right down there with all the mud-sucking fish!  Not a nice place to be, or a great feeling to have, but that was the reality.  Still, I never gave up trying to elevate myself to a slightly higher level.

Whenever any games were played and teams were chosen, I soon learned what it felt like to reluctantly be picked last.  I continued to offer myself, but sadly I was overlooked again and again.

We used to play a particular game known as "Bok Bok", where you had to tuck your head into the behind of the person in front of you, until a sort of train was formed.  I could never quite get the hang of the game beyond knowing that the opposite side had to jump on your backs and try to collapse you.  One very large, fat girl repeatedly made it her mission to fall heavily on top of me at every turn.  Very disconcerting!

All disagreements were settled at the top field and I can vividly remember on many occasions saying "I'll get you after lunch at the top field."  One of the girls in my class in an effort to get out of any kind of confrontation said to me once, " Only cheap girls fight," to which I replied "So you think you're expensive?"  This ridicules reply got us falling about and laughing so much, that any fight we might of had, went right out the window. 

I did however challenge the best fighter in the school to a fight at the top field, but she made mincemeat of me and had me slinking away with my tail between my legs, a very bruised ego and a even more bruised arm to show for it.  We did however become very good friends at one stage, to the point where she would break her chocolate bar in half and offer it to me.

As I mentioned before,  boarding school sorts out the "women" from the "girls" so to speak.  There is nothing new under the sun and popular girls will always have everyone clambering to be in their circle, while those who are further down the food chain, suffer the ignominious
degradation of being asked to leave a group in order to placate someone supposedly more popular.  On reflection, I know that the problem lay with the other person and not with me, but at a young and tender age, it's difficult to look at life objectively, especially when one is so closely involved.